


Some Tune to Their Souls

by PrincessSteve



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Canon Compliant, Cuban Lance, Female Pronouns for Pidge | Katie Holt, Galra Keith (Voltron), German Pidge, I stand corrected, I wrote this while avoiding finals work, Korean Keith, Long winded considerations from Lotor, Lotor has a crush, M/M, No S5 spoilers, POV Third Person, Rated T for cursing and future sexual content, a bit of a slow burn, also starring an actual explanation as to how everyone somehow understands each other, and it's not even my otp, and peppered with angst, and will probably be flirting awkwardly in later chapters, but that is def not what this fic is about yo, healthy Lotor/Keith, how about them apples, like an adult, miss me with that abusive stuff, my sense of humor is bone dry, no longer canon compliant, post 4th season, this is my first fic in over seven years, to each their own, told from lotor's perspective
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-19
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2019-02-17 02:43:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13067439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrincessSteve/pseuds/PrincessSteve
Summary: It becomes exceedingly clear, very quickly in fact, that interrogations are not the strong suit of the paladins of Voltron. Nor, for that matter, is keeping prisoners. They're lucky Lotor is so magnanimous. Discontinued until further notice due to writer's block on this one. Notice may not arrive.





	1. Chapter 1

It becomes exceedingly clear, very quickly in fact, that interrogations are not the strong suit of the paladins of Voltron. 

He lands his ship in a hanger far too large for the pathetically small number of crafts it holds, settling with intentional grace next to the shambles of the vehicle he had stopped from flinging itself in his mother’s shields. All things considered, it’s impressive the beast of a fighter flew at all. That model was outdated as it was, one which had long since been relegated to the lowest rungs of his father’s ‘empire’, and had not been well maintained. Of the machine’s four engines only one, maybe two, looked – at a glance - to be capable of running at all, let alone well. The pilot is exceedingly talented, this much is apparent. Then again, the Blades had never had much time nor patience for any but the best. Running a resistance without allies or supplies against a 10,000 year old empire tended to cut short such things he supposed – although it was also a matter of blood. Galra as a species held aloft the talented, the brilliant, the skilled. These were the most worthy, mediocrity could die with the weak. Victory or death and all that turned out – he had found – to be less his father’s propaganda and more simply the natural flow of their people. Even rebels fell in line in that fact.

Lotor’s eyes caught on the movement of the ship’s hatch opening, on the first motions the figure inside climbing out. He had the moment to be vindicated in his guess – informed though it was, only a galra could fly a galra fighter and in this only the Blades would be fighting with Voltron – that the pilot was a Blade before movement in front of him required greater attention than that which he paid to his pride and cleverness. Although he had never seen her proper, he immediately knew this to be the Princess Allura of the hushed curses which fell muttered from his mother’s mouth. She was stunning in an unreal way, as if she was someone who both did and did not belong in the spot in which she stood. She was tall, near to his own considerable height. Alteans, he had been told, had always been near to size of the Galra who themselves were known for their ability to take up space – in this both literally and figuratively. White curls, looking more like the wisps of a washed out nebula than hair, tumbled about her shoulders and for a brief moment Lotor thought that this then must be the side he got it from before her eyes – pale and blue like the sky on those few untouched planets – pinned him in place.

Bless her for she was trying, truly, to look imposing. But there was simply too much of her father in her. Too much kindness settled about her shoulders and poured from her eyes for him to truly fear her, even for the moment as she glared him down and ordered he follow her in clipped tones. No guards or threat of violence moved to enforce her orders as they would with his father, and for a brief second he allowed himself to wonder what would happen if he refused. That, however, would not serve his interests at all and so he followed – leisurely and enjoying for once a look into the other half of his lineage. He had heard, of course, of Alteans. Of the airiness of their architecture, the kindness of their souls, the weakness of their spines when the situation demanded steal. Looking ahead at the princess, clad still in a uniform of Voltron and not bothering to look back to know he was following, Lotor wondered how much he’d been told was his father’s blindness and how much truth. This Altean, at least, looked to be made of many things – air and nebulas and steal spines all. 

She leads him the long way to a small room, and he knew it to be so because of the way she allowed herself a moment's hesitation when she would come to a key turn. The princess wanted to take her time then. Give him time to worry, perhaps – although this felt like he was giving himself too little credit. Surely she did not think silence and a brisk walk through well lit but empty halls would be enough to trip him up. No. The time was not for him, but for others. She was giving the rest of the paladins time to file into whatever room she was taking him to for negotiations. Giving them time to set up, to make a more intimidating picture. It was cute, in a way, and all things considered he certainly would have tried the same. It made far more of an impact to walk into a room of enemies than an empty room, although this effect was lessened by the time they arrived as he very much expected it. He gave himself a small, brief mental congratulation when Allura opened the door to a room and inside he found several others waiting. 

The room was small and very bright compared to the Galran interrogation rooms he was used to. Instead of a stand of shined and cold torture instruments there sat a table, clean but ever so slightly askew in a way which made it exceeding clear it had been moved here. The table had one attendant chair which was obviously intended for him. He sat without having to be told to, doing his best not to lounge too much as he was actively trying to put forth a genuine image here. Allura nodded, mostly to herself, and moved to join the other paladins standing opposite of his seat. They were all young. So very young that even he had a moment of guilt, of regret, that they were here at all. Most stood with their arms crossed, as if this were a position somehow more intimidating to him, but the effect was ruined by the fact that all had removed their helmets. He can see all their faces, and Terrans – he is quickly learning – have especially expressive faces. With the champion at their head they cut a slightly more intimating figure, but only just so. To the right, filed tight against the wall from which he had entered stood a line of Mamora agents in dark uniforms and blank masks. They did not cross their arms, but then again they were Galra. Elite Galra. They knew they did not need to put up a front to seem ready to kill. 

“Hello Lotor...” began the smooth voice of one of the paladins, translated easily by his implant and that was something of a relief. The implants he received as a child were never meant to handle Terran language, but they coped nonetheless. He glanced back at the paladins, focusing again on the champion who now spoke to him. The man was large, at least by his species’ standards he seemed to be. He was by far the tallest and most broad, spanning three times the width of the smallest paladin easily. His head cocked to one side, arms crossed in the most convincing attempt at intimidation. He – like Allura, however, - had a softness in the strange, brown hue of his eyes that told his more inner truths. The champion was a kind man, a gentle man by nature. But his title proved, if nothing else, that he could be moved to violence if he was forced. “Tell me, why should we even begin to trust you?”

It was a good question. A better question than he expected to answer first. A question he didn’t have an answer to. And so he deflected. “Well, I did save your errant Blade’s life – that must give us a start.” The Blades are here, accompanying the paladins in their little interrogation. This must mean something.

The paladins react as mildly as they can manage, but their confusion is still apparent. One of the present Terrans, not a paladin but clearly related to the smallest (their hair has the same fall to it, their golden eyes the same glint of ruthless intelligence) looks uncomfortable as he shifts in place and attempts not to glance at the Blades in the room. 

“I mean….” one trails off, and he is the darkest of the lot by skin tone and also very clearly the softest. Not in means of figure, as he is the largest after the champion and very clearly built for brute strength, but in the gentle slope of his shoulders, the way his eyes linger on Lotor’s face. He is very clearly not built for cruelty. “You kinda saved all of us? I don’t know how that has anything to do with the Blades specifically...” 

Ah. So they either did not know or did not care, but the nervous shift of the other Terran – the one standing in the back and trying very hard not to look at the Blades – says the former is clearly the case. Well then. He has more bargaining chips than anticipated.

“One of your Blades,” he drawls with care, staring into the eyes of the dark one as he is clearly the one who will care most about his statement. “was preparing to drive himself into my mother’s shields to break them down. To give you a chance.”

His words hang in the air for a millisecond too long for him to have miscalculated. They care, they care very much. The only thing he had guessed wrong on was which of the five would care most because the answer, apparently, was all of them. In surprising co-ordination (or perhaps not, they were the paladins of Voltron after all) the Terrans turned their eyes to one Blade in particular – some more obviously than others. The smallest, a short and slender wisp of a thing with wild golden hair and violently intelligent eyes, made no attempts at subtlety. Turning her entire body to face the end of the room where the Blades stood, she gave a look which read equal parts murder and care – a look that was all too like those brief, brief moments when his mother was of her mind enough to be his mother. They all stared with intimate knowledge at one Blade in particular.

Without being able to see his face, the Blade was only remarkable in his relative smallness. He was, in that, very small – especially standing in line with the other Blades. At best he came to the chest of the others, and was very easily half or even a third as broad. This Blade was very clearly built for speed, for maneuverability and a small part of him thought it made sense that someone who was so used to slipping in the in betweens of spaces would be so adept a fighter pilot. 

“We’re having a talk about this later.” The smallest paladin stated, her tone so flat and barely contained in its fury that it brokered no argument. She turned her eyes on him, sharp and calculating, and he realized that if any of them were going to be a threat to him it would have been her. But in this moment she is forgiving. His gambit worked, in the last way he expected it to. “You,” she snipped in order, and his translator had more trouble with her language but the tone is so precise and the look of her eyes so intent that even if it had failed it would have left no misunderstanding. “Talk.” 

And so he does, somewhat surprised by how simultaneously unintimidating the alliance negotiations are and how overwhelming the righteous fury of the paladins – apparently very, very miffed at their Blade friend – proves to be. They forge a tenuous deal, a simple one. His aid and information in exchange for their protection, and for the first time in months he is able to breath easy knowing that for the moment – at least - he is safe from his father’s machinations. The Blades, all but the smallest, file out of the room before him and his is in turn led out by Coran – a vibrant and enthusiastic man who speaks so freely that Lotor can’t help but assume he must be hiding something. The paladins, even the princess, do not follow.

The door to their makeshift negotiation room has barely closed before he hears, in a tone both purely heartbroken and purely furious in equal measure, “Keith… what the fuck?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this wine drunk after finishing a 30 page final paper. I don’t even know you guys. I haven’t written fanfic in like seven fucking years. I made a god damn account to post this.
> 
> This isn’t even my ship!
> 
> God damn it.
> 
> This is my hubris. Lotor’s prissy ass just fits too well with my writing style, and Keith is a fascinating study in Lotor’s eye. More to come presumably. I do have to finish finals first, but after that I have winter break and as such I have no excuses not to write at least one more chapter before school swallows my life again.
> 
> I do hope you enjoy! I’m a bit rusty at creative writing :/
> 
> Note* Edited for a small typo and some tense confusion.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If interrogations are ‘not their strong suit’, then clearly keeping prisoners is the soft and vulnerable underbelly of the Paladins of Voltron.

If interrogations are ‘not their strong suit’, then clearly keeping prisoners is the soft and vulnerable underbelly of the Paladins of Voltron. 

Granted, at no point did they expressly call him their prisoner but the words guest or ally also haven’t been said. To be true, not much has been said to him at all and Lotor is both unsurprised and admittedly miffed. After all, he is a half-bred and the luster of being the Emperor’s heir only holds for so long when impressionable children are told by their equally impressionable parents how inherently inferior he is by nature. He’s used to people ignoring him. Still, some part of him had assumed the paladins would hold some measure of fascination for him. They had tangled before, if you could call the stuttering and uninspiring row all this time ago on -or rather in - Thaseryix a proper fight. The black paladin in the very least must have some mildly entertaining words to spit at him. 

Instead he is told plainly by another Altean, this one just as tall as he is but more slender with a shock of vibrant hair like the orange blood of an Unilu that seems to him far too bright a color to see every day comfortably, that the doors have biolocks. If he is permitted in a room, the door will open. If he is not, the door will remain shut. It’s childishly simplistic in its logic and he lets himself feel a bit more miffed in this treatment. Either they thought him so harmless that the paladins saw no point in treating him like an actual threat, or they were overwhelmingly and terribly naive to simply trust him at his word. For once, he does genuinely mean his word, but it is foolish to trust it at face value regardless. They’d have to be fools. Underestimating his opponents has never done him any favors however and so he is forced to assume then that the paladins are underestimating him, and oh if that doesn’t sting. 

“And m’boy,” Lotor is momentarily stunned by the epitaph, allowing himself to stare at the Altean - Coran - as if he had somehow begun spewing utter nonsense instead of the mildly affectionate sounding nick name. If Coran notices he said it at all he lets none of his awareness at the absolute absurdity of the situation show on his mustachioed face, twirling one end of the hairs gently between his fingertips as he glances back at Lotor. “If you try to force the doors open… Well-” He laughs, far too loud and boisterous for one of the two last remaining members of a dying race, and practically teleports to one of the walls of the broad medical room they stand in. There must be more to this man than appearances allow if he’s able to move that quickly and smoothly, maybe he should be considered more – and then the man slams his hand against the wall, several times in quick but steady succession like one would on the shoulder of a choking friend or a favored but very large pet. Each hit echos with a steady thud that pierces straight to the core of Lotor’s growing knot of frustration and annoyance and he has decided unequivocally that there is simply not more to this man than what he can see. The Altean is slapping a millennia old, stunning work of art of a ship like it’s a drinking buddy who has offered to buy the next round and the very thought of showing such a feat of engineering so little respect makes him fundamentally angry like few things can. “This old girl has a few more tricks up her sleeve, as the Terrans say!”

Old Girl. This ship is a gift. If it were a girl at all it would be a woman, elegant and terrifying in her beauty with words that cut more sharply than any blade could, like every proper queen – not some old hag with itching powder and a stick hidden ‘up her sleeve’. 

He says none of this, of course. He is actively trying here, if not to make friends then at least to not make more enemies. Instead Lotor hums in a way which could be taken as agreement, or acknowledgment, or simply bone deep boredom. Luckily for him Coran seems to interpret it as one of the former two and turns slightly to slap a hand on his shoulder. Lotor reassures himself that if he were not trying to make allies he would have already broken the Altean’s hand and shoves what little hint of comfort he draws from the friendly contact as far down as it can go. This ready acceptance must not trick him. No one is this open, this willing to grant a stranger let alone a former enemy entry into their good graces. This is some form of trick, some kind of test. Coran gestures wildly with the hand not on his shoulder, giving vague directions that he’s sure will not help at all as to where he can find food, and a room for himself, and oh the library’s down there third right past the quinent generators – as if that was even an actual thing which exists and not some gibberish thrown out to make him feel unsettled. 

Lotor hums again, this time in a slightly different pitch, and the Altean shoots him one last look – a wain but genuine smile that is more unsettling than any threat could be- and returns to his medical bay with a nod. The door slides shut behind him and Lotor is left alone, standing in the brightly lit but otherwise unremarkable hall still in the clothes he fought in, the clothes he was betrayed in, the uniform he fashioned himself which now did not settle about his skin right. He heads off in the direction of ‘his’ room and hopes there is an acceptable change of clothes there, alone.

He remains alone for days. He begins to wonder if this is their tactic, some form of isolation torture. But no, that only works when you’re truly alone and he’s never truly alone. He walks to the library and sees the champion training inside a gym as he passes, he retrieves food and finds a bowl of something both foreign and far more appetizing than the sustenance goo set aside for him with a sloppily written note in a language he can’t read beyond his name. He’s never alone. But no one is watching him. He had expected someone to be watching him, someone to be violently opposed to his presence. He had wanted that; that company, that mental battle to prove that while he is here purely for his own self interest, his self interest serves the cause. Anything was better than being functionally ignored. As if it couldn’t matter less to them if he was here or not. 

Four days into his stay in the Castle of Lions he tells himself that the Paladins of Voltron are simply shit prison keepers and seeks them out where the sound and light is greatest. He finds them in a lounge, with large windows overlooking the otherwise blank sea of stars in which they float and long, plush seats arranged in a crescent shape. He isn’t entirely sure what he’s walked in on. All the paladins are here, dressed in what seems to be their more comfortable clothes although with a preponderance of buttons and layers and straps – or in the princess’ case a proper gown – he isn’t sure if these clothes count as being comfortable. They are joined by two others, the green paladin’s nervous sibling and another one he’s never seen before- or at least he assumes as much as the back of the creature’s head doesn’t look particularly familiar. The way they hold themselves is, however, somewhat familiar - the strong stance and straight shoulders remind him of something or someone he’s seen before, but he can not place the mop of soft black curls or garish jacket. 

Curls is standing, trying to appear casual but there is a firmness in their stance and a hardness in the jut of their hip which speaks to him less of true comfort and more of carefully coiled potential – as if at any moment they could spring into glorious action. It’s a stance he finds more comforting than anything else he’s encountered in his stay here, even if Curls isn’t speaking to him. At least someone here is ready to fight. Next to Curls stands the champion, dwarfing his companion by the very act of being close to the smaller creature, pivoted towards them and the doorway through which he enters. His brown eyes flick, for a moment, up to him – more acknowledgment than anything and it’s more than Lotor’s experienced in days – but does not break his conversation.

They are speaking in a language his translator has never encountered before and the tech is floundering to grasp at context and intonation to give him any iota of an idea of what’s being said. The language is clipped, but flowing. Each word begins and ends with intention, but the sound of them is in itself musical. Flitting up and falling down with each syllable. It’s unlike any other language he’s ever heard.

He’s not alone in his astonishment at the sound, apparently. All the paladins are watching the conversation with varying degrees of interest, but one in particular – the blue paladin he reminds himself absently- appears to be absolutely overwhelmed. The man is beautiful in his own right – one of the few Terrans he’d seen to whom he with give the descriptor. Skin a most unusual color of honeyed brown, like the warmed sands of some desert planets, and eyes a dark, vibrant blue – he’s unusual by most species’ standards. Exotic was a word he’d heard thrown around before, and while Lotor had personally hated the usage -especially as applied to himself by strangers, as if he were some animal to be appreciated and imported, he still felt it applied in a way to this man. Or at least it would if he wasn’t immediately turned off by the wide gap of the paladin’s mouth as he gestured wildly to the speaking black paladin and his companion. 

“What the hey!” He practically screeched, like their conversation had somehow personally offended him. Lotor wondered for a moment if perhaps it did, if he was the only one who could not understand their words, before the blue paladin continued. “How are you doing that? I thought these fancy Garrison translators were supposed to pick up everything. Is mine broken? Pidge is mine broken?”

‘Pidge’, the green paladin apparently, looked up from her datapad with a small quirk to her brow and a soft frown. “Can you understand me?”

“Yes.”

“Then no, your chip isn’t broken. They’re probably just speaking one of the more minor languages. These things only came with a few human languages when we got them, and I didn’t bother adding a lot more when we updated to galactic standards.” She returned to her datapad, sparing only a moment’s glance for the black paladin as if she half wished she had added their language – of which Terrans apparently had several – before returning her attention to her text.

“How doya know?”

She sighed, pushing up the slender framed glasses on her face and sparing the blue paladin an annoyed look. Lotor was beginning to catch the feeling that this was a normal look to send towards him, particularly when the long and slender man shrugged, flopping sideways onto the lounger without grace. “I mean how do you know my translator isn’t broken?”

“Do you speak German?”

“Why would I speak German?”

“Then it’s not broken.”

Pidge did not bother returning to her reading yet, instead waiting and watching the blue paladin with annoyance only barely tempered by worn thin patience as he worked through her admittedly vague logic. He apparently arrived at her intended point however, shooting her a look as equally surprised and vaguely offended as the look he’d been giving the others. “You’re speaking German right now?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m German Lance.”

Lance looked even more surprised, turning to look again at the Black Paladin – who at this point was giving him a somewhat exacerbated look over the shoulder of his companion. Lotor spared himself a moment’s thought, standing awkwardly by the doorway and simply watching each conversation in turn with interest, but found himself too interested in the company he had found to leave it just yet regardless. “Well, what’re they speaking then?”

The Black Paladin’s companion, apparently grown weary of being spoken of quite literally behind his back, turned and even Lotor had to admit he was very glad he has sought out company now. He did not immediately make the mental connection – instead appreciating the lines of the man’s face for a moment. Lotor would be the first to admit he was weak to pretty things, and this man was a beautiful one. His face was a concert of hard lines and soft features in an odd mix that shouldn’t have worked but undeniably did. A hard jaw, cut square and clenched in annoyance, paired with the soft curve of a gentle chin and bow shaped lips. His eyes were narrow and hooded in a way he’d never seen on another face, not that he’d seen many Terrans, but so striking a violent purple that they could not be denied - standing out from a pale face haloed in hair so dark and thick, curling just so, that Lotor would almost guess he was Galran. 

The comparison drew a spark – the bare hint of recognition which could set off the trail of black powder clues he’d picked up- and very suddenly the vague sense of familiarity made sense to him. This Terran didn’t simply have features – his thick, loose curls; the broad bridge of his nose – that looked Galra. They were Galra. This was the fighter pilot, the Blade who’d been prepared to fling himself into certain death then stood half an hour later tensed and ready like he was still considering a fight. It explained the intense interest the Terrans had in him, he was one of their own. At least, half of him was.

A small part of Lotor congratulated himself on his own cleverness, wondering absently how many months it’d taken Lance here to realize his ‘human’ friend wasn’t human. An even smaller part saw little wonder in the fact that once again he was drawn to an exceptional half blood. There was simply something, some tune to their souls that was brought by the very unique experience that half bloods like himself had which he could hear from a tangent or more away. He remembers once, in a moment of lucidity or perhaps a brief moment of insanity, when his mother had tucked an already too long strand of white hair behind his ear – her own falling forward in a curtain to mercifully hide her blank stare from him – and murmured that like souls liked to find one another. Perhaps she was right.

The Blade huffed, some of the quiet tension bleeding from his frame with it as he shot a look at Lance, dark but only just – like one would look at a particularly annoying sibling whom you both loved and would love to strangle. A look that, until recently, he spared only for Ezor. 

“We’re speaking Korean, Lance.” Was it too desperate a thing to admit he liked the sound of the Blade’s voice? The more prudent question was did he like the Blade’s voice, or did he automatically assign more to the Blade’s voice because he found the man attractive? The most prudent question was if it was indeed wise for him to allow himself to find the Blade – who was clearly of high importance both as an ally and as a close friend of his newly acquainted and very tentative alliance – attractive at all. The answer, to the last question at least, was probably not. He did anyway and had very little motivation within himself to feel mollified. 

“Why?”

“Probably because I’m Korean.” Sound logic, logic which Lance had already encountered within the last ten minutes. Hopefully it would solve whatever his apparent qualms were and the Blade and paladin would speak again in that melodious language.

“Your name is Keith.” Or not, apparently. While he appreciated having the name to assign to the face, however strange a name it was, Lotor failed to see how it mattered when it came to the Blade’s Terran lineage. 

Keith closed his eyes, leaning his head back to rest heavy on his shoulders - and the view of his neck, long and exposed was lovely – sighing as he did so. “Technically,” he finally conceded, looking back up with a sudden glint of mischievousness. “My name isn’t Keith.”

Of the witnesses to this conversation, only the champion and himself looked unsurprised at this fact. The champion likely already knew what his companion’s real name was, they seemed close in their interactions in a way which bleed familiarity. He still failed to see what the name had to do with which languages he may speak.

At the chorus of inquisitive noises, none louder than Lance’s ear piercing screech, not-Keith crossed his arms, shifting his weight to one side and cocking his hip in a way more playful than combative. “Keith’s my middle name,” he explained, and that meant absolutely nothing to Lotor but he listened nonetheless. “After my father. I started going by it when I was… younger (Lotor did not miss that hesitation, that brief second where he almost said something perhaps more truthful but less comfortable and quickly redirected course.) because it was easier for kids to say. My given name’s Hui-Jun.”

They stared in silence for a moment before Lance, of course, responded – his tone flat and unimpressed. “Your real name is Hui-Jun, which is undeniably more badass, and yet you decide to go by the name that makes you sound like a 50 year old uncle with a porn stache who bowls.” None of that sentence even began to make sense, and in this it seems at least half the room agrees with him if their bewildered looks are anything to go by. Lance is not done, however, flinging himself back down against the couch from where he’d sat up to glare down the Blade – Keith, Hui-Jun whichever his name was they were both equally alien to his ear. He tossed an arm over the yellow paladin’s lap, who allowed him with only an amused look for his troubles, the other pressed against his forehead as if he was feeling faint. “What other lies have I been living under!? Next you’ll tell me Shiro’s name isn’t Shiro and Keith’s favorite animal isn’t a sickass emo concoction of three wolves howling at the moon.” 

Both the Blade and the Black Paladin shared similar looks of vague disappointment and offputtedness, answering simultaneously.

“My name isn’t Shiro.”

“Hippos are my favorite.”

Lance froze, popping up again after a moment’s delay and Lotor had to admit that if this is what a normal conversation with the Blue Paladin looked like then he had to have impressive core muscles. “Wait what?” 

“My name isn’t Shiro? It’s just a nickname Lance, after my last name. My first name is Takashi...”

Lance waved wildly, careless of the information. “Yeah, yeah I already knew that. That was a joke. I was making a joke and you ruined it. What I didn’t already know though is that Keith’s favorite animal is apparently nature’s fattest, happiest broccoli muncher the hippo.” 

Keith looked unimpressed. “A female hippo has a bite of over 1,800 pounds of force.” He informed flatly, a fact he had clearly memorized on first discovering his favorite animal – as most children do. Lotor was sure that given the right inhibition lowering inputs and incentives he could still wax poetic about yalex – not that there was a single living soul to which he would admit this. “That’s more than enough to crush your skull three times over.” 

Lance made as if to stand, squaring his shoulders like he intended to fight although his expression was still carefree and teasing in a way that only solidified his mental comparison to Ezor. He was cut off, however, by a tight hand on the back of his jacket and the green paladin’s exceptionally tired expression – like a mother tending to her rambunctious flock long after she’d stopped having the fight in her to care. “Stop it, both of you. You’ve gone and scared Lotor and this is the first time he’s actually come out of hiding to visit us.”

His hackles raise slowly in his own defense, although he’s not sure what to defend first. He hasn’t been hiding, and even the suggestion of such is ridiculous. If anything they’ve been hiding from him, slipping off to gather in places he just never is. The fact that he’s managed to catch them all here is nothing short of a testament to his prowess as a skilled and stealthy tracker. He also certainly was not scared by any of this situation, the only possible exception being the very inadvisability of his budding attraction. Pidge eyed the bared fang shown by his half snarl with the most brief instance of momentarily and quickly killed interest he’d ever seen, giving him the blank look of a woman who could not possibly care less for his posturing as she gestured to the empty seat on the couch next to her. He startled, only slightly, and sat heavily next to her as indicated for lack of anything better to do.

In front of them Keith, who had been watching the exchange with Shiro – eyes sharp and catching on anything his instincts may have told him was a threat – laughed. It was a short thing, little more than a single huff of amusement but it was enough for his eyes to light and a pair of ever so slightly longer Galran incisors to flash before he turned away again. He slipped back into the strange language Lotor’s translator skipped and jumped over, the tech managing only to pick out a word here or there as he watched intently – fascinated despite himself. Pidge propped her short legs up across his lap like they belonged there, and were it anyone else he likely would have been outraged at the disrespect it showed. With this small creature, however, eyes catching on his face over the edge of her datapad in a way that was altogether too knowing, he would allow it. There was something about her spark he liked, almost as much as he liked the fires in Keith’s eyes. He settled his hands over the top of her legs, holding them in place, and did not try to pretend he was not watching. No one seemed to mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey yo, what up. I’m back at it again with another chapter on this fanfic which I have tentatively mentally titled ‘Lotor is a Fop’. At least this time I’m sober, which is probably why this chapter has more notes of humor than melancholy. 
> 
> Just got back from spending the holidays with my sister and you guys I am honestly so charmed by the support and feedback I've gotten on this. Thank you all so much, I'm very glad you're enjoying it! Finals are over (and I'm even starting to get grades back already which is aces) so I'll hopefully be able to have another chapter for you guys next week! To come, some awkward af flirting.
> 
> By the by, the Akira bit is in reference to the character from the original Japanese series that Keith fills the role of.
> 
> Note* Edited to fix a bit of grossness on my part. It was pointed out to me that it was jarring to give a Korean character a Japanese name, and read as being pretty dang racist. I apologize for making that mistake and I have gone back in to fix the issue. Now in the text Keith gives the name Hui-Jun (pronounced Hee-joon) as his name, which if my research is correct is written as 희준 and should mean something along the lines of bright or splendid and talented or handsome. It's as close as I could find to the most popular meaning of Akira ( written in Kanji as 明 ) which is bright, intelligent, or clear. I apologize again.


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